


A Memory of Love

by stellarbisexual



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, Hollywood, I don't know how this happened, M/M, Method actor Eddie Kaspbrak, Reddie are in their 30s, Sketch comedy genius Richie Tozier, yup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-25 07:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14971787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarbisexual/pseuds/stellarbisexual
Summary: Richie and Eddie, who haven't seen each other since they were kids, get cast as the lead couple in an indie film.





	1. Casting

**Author's Note:**

> *Consent warning: I did not tag for dubcon or non-con, but because of the nature of this fic, these are not typical consent circumstances. I don't consider it dubious consent because these are two actors who have mutually agreed to be "method" together, so consent is implied. That said, they do talk about it and check in with each other throughout. But just a warning if you think that might trigger you. 
> 
> I am not a method actor by any means, and I don’t buy into most of the methods of method (haaaa), but I do like some elements of it, and I use only those for my representation of Eddie as an actor here. Just FYI. Most method actors are terrible, self-centered people--but that's just my (totally accurate, unbiased) experience.
> 
> Enjoyyyyyy

_“Acting isn’t something you do.  Instead of doing it, it occurs. If you’re going to start with logic, you might as well give up.  You can have conscious preparation, but you can have unconscious results.” - Lee Strasberg_

 

It’s the end of an era, Richie thinks, watching silently as his castmates dance, drink, and party, floating around him like an impressionist painting.  

He’d started at The Friday Show, or TFS, a more risque LA-based SNL knockoff, when he was a baby—twenty-five, an age that, eight years later, it seems impossible for him to have ever been.  There isn’t a trace of melancholy or regret about his departure; it’s time, and he’s ready. As for what he’s going to do next, though? That’s a big fucking question mark.

Bev, his best friend going on six years now, materializes in front of him with a tumbler of really good bourbon, the kind reserved for a party like this.  He looks down at her with gratitude. She stands nearly two heads shorter than him but can still level him with her fiery green eyes at the drop of a hat. “Want it?”  She waves the glass in front of him. “Or would you rather sneak out?”

“As soon as this is empty,” he says, grabbing the glass from her.  He’s so glad she’s here; she’s one of very few people—or maybe the only person—he can be serious with.

“I’m ready,” she says, smiling.

He and Bev were actually childhood friends, but their middle school friendship had been short-lived, and neither of them remembered much of it.  In fact, Richie’s life from the ages of twelve to about fourteen is nothing but a big, gaping black hole. Bev had moved away, gone to FIT, and landed in LA after making quite the name for herself in New York.  She’d ended up outfitting him for a photo shoot when he first started picking up steam on TFS, they’d taken one look at each other, their jaws dropping, and the rest is history.

Everyone who meets Richie says he’s “so LA,” that he might as well have been born here for how much the city of angels suits him.  He’s not so sure about that, especially not now. In fact, lately he’s been thinking of picking up and disappearing completely for a couple of years, doing some humanitarian work, something that actually matters at the very least.

Bev presses a kiss to the shoulder of his jacket and fades back into the crowd, mingling dutifully as the reservoir of Richie’s bourbon gets lower and lower.  

A friendly-looking man in a suit approaches him.  Richie’s on his guard, already ready to go home, but the man asks more genuine questions than the usual “What’s next for you?” bullshit and he seems to actually be listening, so Richie listens, too.   

He cuts to the chase soon enough.  “I have to admit, I’ve been working up the courage to approach you all night.”

Richie’s eyes go wide.

“No, no,” the guy is quick to say, laying a comforting hand on Richie’s forearm.  “I’m a producer. I’m in early pre-production on an indie that’s basically like a gay _Blue Valentine_.  Have you ever thought about doing any dramatic work?”

Richie purses his lips.  “No, do you think I should?” he jokes, and instead of laughing, the man—Greg—nods enthusiastically.  

“Your transformative skills are incredible, and there’s something really accessible about you.”

Richie shakes his head like he’s been punched.  He pictures a mouthpiece flying out of his mouth.  He’s been approached by producers before, but none of them have ever talked to him like they know what the fuck they’re talking about.  Greg actually seems to know and give a shit about good performances, which is not common.

“The other lead is already cast.  He’s still sort of an unknown, but he’s this incredible character actor.  A total throwback to the great method actors of the 50s. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s on a serious award track.”

Ah, so Greg _is_ a producer, after all.

“It may take a few years, but that’s how good he is.”

“What’s his name?” Richie asks, eyeing Bev, who’s pointing at his empty glass from the other side of the pool and giving him a thumbs up.

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”

*

Richie and Bev have been pulled up in front of his house huddled over his phone for the last ten minutes.  

“I can’t believe Eddie’s an actor now.  Who knew?”

One of Bev’s manicured fingers swipes through an endless string of photos of grown-up Eddie Kaspbrak, who they both remember as petite, asthmatic, and extremely high-strung.  Richie doesn’t remember much from their friendship as kids (about as much as he remembers of how he and Bev first met), but from what he does remember, Eddie’s the last kid he would have expected to become an actor.  

He’s attractive, sure, in an everyman, Anthony Perkins-ish way, but he was never the most outgoing or confident of his friends (that spot was reserved for Richie himself, thank you very much).  He would have remembered seeing a spark like that. Right?

It’s a bit of a battle wrestling his phone back from Bev, who’s horribly intrigued by this turn of events.  Richie’s exhausted, though, and eager to be alone after the last couple of weeks of high-octane schmoozing, so he gives her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek and pushes the car door open, strolling quickly away from the cul-de-sac and up his front walkway.  His feet drag heavily to a stop as he spots the thick manila envelope leaned up against the bottom of his front door. Greg had mentioned having the script delivered by courier within twenty-four hours, but Richie hadn’t expected it quite so soon, and without his agent’s involvement.  It’s like it’s been dropped right down from the sky.

He bends down with a grunt, picking it up and confirming that that’s indeed what it is, tossing the package up gently in his big hands, testing its heft.  He smiles and slips his key into the door. It’s good to feel wanted.

Richie heaves a big sigh as he closes the door behind him, taking in the wonderful, welcome silence, only to feel unsettled by it less than a minute later.  He putters around for a moment, considers pouring himself a nightcap, then decides against it, setting the house alarm and heading straight for his bedroom.

As he slips off his suit, looking out the sliding doors at the back, at the expanse of land he’s had big plans for for years but still has yet to turn into a proper garden, he smiles out of the corner of his mouth.  “Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.”

He hasn’t agreed to anything yet, but he has a feeling he will.


	2. Table Read

When Richie arrives at Greg’s house a few short weeks later, his co-star is already sitting by the pool, just a tuft of fluffy, chestnut hair peeking out over the back of a lounge chair, one bare foot skimming the surface of the water in a hypnotic left-to-right motion.  

“Ah, there’s the love of my life!”  Richie’s booming voice disrupts the quiet, prompting Eddie to peer around the side of the chair, his mouth agape, squinting in the bright sun. 

Richie’s heart lurches violently in his chest, nearly taking his breath away, to the point where he makes a mental note to pick up some Prevacid on the way home—but as Eddie unravels himself to approach, one nervous hand righting his hair and the other clutching a curled up copy of an already heavily marked-up script, Richie exes out that note. 

He and Eddie didn’t connect before today.  He’d thought about it, but something held him back, maybe a desire to have this moment. 

Eddie’s eyes flicker amber in the sunlight as he takes Richie in with a sweet smile.  “Hi, Richie.”

“Long time no see, Eddie Spaghetti.”  The nickname is out of his mouth before he even knows what the hell it is (like most everything else Richie ever says—and he wishes he could blame the improv background), and Eddie giggles, a high, musical thing that inspires Richie to pull him in for a tight hug.  Eddie’s still pretty tiny, his hair tickling Richie’s clavicle. 

“You two know each other?”  Greg looks both perplexed and pleased. 

Richie tries conjuring an image, anything, from when they were kids, but there’s that black hole again.  He holds Eddie at arm’s length, watching an elaborate cycle of emotions flit across his expressive face, feeling helpless without a key to decipher them.  “We’re both products of Shittown, USA, AKA Derry, Maine.”

“Where dreams go to die,” Eddie says without missing a beat, squinting up at Richie.

*

Richie begins the table read a little nervous and a little on his guard; despite having taken proper acting classes and doing theatre in college, this is still totally new to him, and he fully expects Eddie to make him feel out of his league, not just because Richie’s a lowly fucking comedian but because he’s never had a serious relationship with a man in his life.  He doesn’t expect Eddie to be a dick about it, but he expects him to want to take control and subtly steer him right if he goes off course, maybe even get frustrated with him from time to time. 

But there’s no sign of that, at least not today.  Eddie is open and kind, complimentary, even, reassuring Richie  _ You’re so perfect for this role _ when he makes his first of many self-deprecating remarks before they actually start to read.  Plus, it’s clear three pages into the script that they’re both still just seeing how the words taste in their mouths, taking the pressure off considerably.  

It never occurs to Richie that Eddie might be nervous as hell, too, but he admits just that as they drive away from Greg’s house, the sky beginning to go orange and pink.  Richie’s offered to take him back to his hotel, as Eddie’s only in town for a few days and isn’t getting a rental. 

Eddie pushes a big breath out of his mouth.  “I was so fucking nervous about today.”

“ _ You _ were nervous?”  Richie’s eyebrows shoot up.  “I actually puked this morning.”

“No you didn’t!”  Eddie smacks his shoulder playfully.  

“Scout’s honor,” Richie says, flashing two fingers, his smile threatening to break his face.  “Strap yourself in; the daily embarrassments of Richie Tozier have only just begun.”

Eddie stares at his profile, face naked in a way that nearly tears Richie’s eyes away from the six lanes of freeway traffic.  “I’m really excited we’re working together.” His voice is soft. 

For all that Greg has expressed the director’s concern about creating enough intimacy between her two lead actors, it sure feels fucking intimate in Richie’s car right about now. 

Richie resists the urge to make a joke, taking a deep breath.  “Me too.” He licks his lips, swallows. “Hey: you wanna get a drink?  I’m not ready to go home yet. Still feel buzzy, like the night after a show.”

Eddie smiles, relaxing into the passenger seat, his body still slightly angled toward Richie’s.  “Sure.”

*

Once they’re settled in at the bar, Richie takes the opportunity to look at Eddie the way he couldn’t in the car, deciding he hadn’t given his face enough credit.  Eddie’s pretty fucking gorgeous, truth be told, all big, sparkling hazel eyes and dark, elegant eyebrows. He watches Eddie’s mouth purse as he examines the drink menu, wet and pouty, and wonders hopefully if they’ll end up hooking up during filming.  

Richie has to mentally smack himself for even thinking it.   _ You’re here to work, you fucking idiot, so get serious for once in your life.  _

“I hope this is okay,” he says, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.  He chose one of his go-to dive bars in Culver City (seems like an oxymoron with how expensive the area’s gotten) since he wanted to be able to hide.  “I know you don’t spend that much time here, so I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go to one of those chichi twenty-dollar cocktail places on Sunset just for the experience.”

“ _ No _ , thanks, this is way more my speed.”

Richie orders himself a pickleback, which inspires a full-body shiver of disgust from Eddie, and Eddie orders a gimlet.  

“So,” Richie says, after shooting the whiskey, then shoots the pickle juice.  “Teach me all about method acting.”

Eddie giggles that sweet, melodic giggle again, then surprises Richie with his retort: “I thought you were going to teach me how to get on TFS.  That’s the only reason I agreed to even do this movie.”

“I still couldn’t tell you how I got on that show, so you’re out of luck there, my friend.”  Richie starts playing with the empty shot glasses, flipping them over and sliding them around on the bartop like a street performer doing a trick.  “Seriously, though. I want to know more about how you work and what you need from me, how I can help you do whatever you need to do.”

“I mean, I want this to work for the both of us, first and foremost.  And I’m not Daniel Day-Lewis; I don’t need the full enchilada. I’m not going to make you or the entire crew call me Thomas between takes or anything,” Eddie says, referring to his character in the film.  “Did Greg tell you I was this big method actor? I’m really not that crazy with it; I just take bits and pieces, whatever works for me—and I like being experimental. But I’ve worked with a lot of actors who don’t subscribe to it at all, and it’s fine.”  Eddie’s nose crinkles as he smiles at Richie’s expression. “You look disappointed. Were you hoping to try it? Because if you’re open to some of it…”

“I’m definitely open,” Richie says decisively.  “I just want to do well.” Eddie seems to perk up considerably at that, which gives Richie an odd feeling of pride.  “Let’s not talk about work anymore. How long have you been in New York?”

Eddie’s response is quick and sounds rehearsed.  “Since I was eighteen. Left my mom’s house and never looked back.”

“ _ Shit.  Your mom.  _  Big lady?” Richie opens his arms wide, eyes narrowed, trying to recall her face and failing.  Eddie nods quietly. “I met her at least once, right?”

“A few times.”

Richie watches him sip generously on his gimlet.  “How much do  _ you _ remember from when we were kids?  I’m getting the impression it’s way more than I do.”

Eddie studiously stares at his half-empty drink.  “Not much more than you, probably. You did tease me relentlessly; I do remember that.”

“Ugh,” Richie grimaces.  “I was such a pain in the ass then.”

“No, you meant well, I think.”  Eddie shakes his head, lifting his eyes at him in a way that threatens to give him heartburn again.  “It was cute.”

Richie inhales sharply, clearing his throat.  “You haven’t been back to Derry at all?”

“...Well.  For my mom’s funeral, back in 2010.”

“I’m so sorry.  You should’ve—.”

Eddie shrugs.  “It never changes.  Derry. It’s kind of freaky that way.  New York is changing all the time. People coming and going.”  Eddie stirs the tiny straw around his drink, though it’s down to almost just ice.  “I saw you once—in New York. You came to do stand-up.”

Richie lights up.  “What? When?”

“Uhhh.”  Eddie’s eyes drift up to the ceiling, trying in vain to read the date there.  “2008? 2009? You were at Gotham.”

Richie shudders.  “That sounds right.  The dark ages.”

“You were great,” Eddie says encouragingly, and either he’s a really good actor or he really means it. 

“...Why didn’t you say hello?”

Eddie cuts his eyes at him, teasing, “Would you have remembered me, asshole?”

Richie cackles.  “Bev and I reconnected, you know, a few years back.  We hang out all the time.”

“ _ Beverly Marsh?  Wow. _ ”

“Yeah.  She’s in fashion and she does production design sometimes—when they pay her enough.”

“That’s really cool.”  

Eddie looks terribly fond.  Richie understands; Bev’s got a way about her.

“She remembers even less about Derry than I do.  Or so she says. But she remembers you. Was very eager to pore over your IMDb page when I told her the news.”

“My whopping five or six credits.”

“Five or six  _ dramatic _ credits, at least.  My page is just TFS, a stoner movie, and a bunch of Funny or Die videos.”

“Okay, we’ve already established that we’re both feeling really insecure about this.  So here’s to being on even footing, at least.” He raises his empty glass to Richie, and Richie lifts one of his empty shot glasses from the table, not bothering to flip it upright before clinking it against Eddie’s.  Eddie motions to the bartender, then quietly asks Richie, “Do you want another?”

Richie opts for something lighter, a beer, since he’s driving, though he anticipates they’ll be here long enough that they’ll both come right back around to sober by the time they finally leave.  The conversation just has that feeling about it. He and Eddie just have that feeling about them, between them. It’s thrilling and a little scary. 

Once they’re all set for drinks again, Richie leans on one of his fists.  “I’m not sure I ever had you pegged to become an actor.”

“ _ I  _ didn’t either; it just sort of happened.  My therapist pushed me into drama therapy when I was in college, and it was more effective than any session we’d ever had.”  Eddie rolls his shoulders, clearly trying to relax them. “I had a lot of anger to work through. Still do,” he smiles ruefully. 

“So you were being method before you even knew what it was.”

Eddie’s smile turns into a sweet, generous thing.  “Yeah, you can say that. It was the best place for me to start because it wasn’t about being good; it was just about being honest.”

Richie can’t remember a time, even as a kid, when he wasn’t dead set on being good, on being funny, on being liked. 

“There wasn’t really a proper audience, so the audience didn’t matter—and it still doesn’t, for me.”

Richie makes a distressed sound.  “Can’t relate, my friend. If I’m not getting a laugh, I’d rather walk into oncoming traffic.”

Eddie looks at him.  “I’ve never been funny—not intentionally, anyway—so _ I  _ can’t relate to  _ that _ .”

“Do you wanna—?” Richie starts impulsively, stopping to take a drink when Eddie looks at him again, all endless eyes and open mouth. 

“What?”

Richie takes another drink, fortifying himself.  “I have a crazy idea. For  _ Blue Valentine _ , Michelle Wiliams and Ryan Gosling lived in a house with each other for a whole month leading up to shooting, so they could be in each other’s space and learn about each other and develop a real relationship—so it would hopefully translate in their performances as this couple who’s been together for years.”  

“So I’ve heard.”  Another smile threatens the corners of Eddie’s mouth.

“...Do you have anything going on before we start rehearsals?”

“No.”

“We don’t have to do a whole month—I’m probably a nightmare to live with—”

Eddie laughs, and Richie’s heart can’t help chasing the sound, wanting more.

“But maybe a couple of weeks?  There’s plenty of room at my house.”

“Okay, easy, TFS,” Eddie teases.

Richie’s even more thrilled at this bit of playful snark.  He actually doesn’t have a comeback, or maybe he’s just too hellbent on getting Eddie’s answer. 

Finally, Eddie puts him out of his misery.  “I’m just kidding. That’s a great idea.”

And that’s how it starts.  


	3. Rehearsal Pt. 1

It takes only a few days for them to arrange everything.  Eddie goes back to New York and packs up two months’ worth of stuff--seven weeks for filming and another three for this experiment they apparently thought was a good idea, while Richie gets his house in order.  

“I probably should’ve mentioned,” Eddie’s gentle voice says over the phone just as he’s about to get on a plane _back_ to LAX, “I have my dog with me.  I can totally board her for the three weeks if need be--but she _is_ a therapy dog, technically.”

Richie’s eyes light up.  “Are you fucking kidding me?!  That’s a bonus.” He’s already revising his shopping list.  “What kind of treats does she like?”

As he wanders through the aisles of his local Whole Foods later that morning, Richie finds himself falling prey to the sweet seduction of this whole scenario, ticking items off from the list of staples Richie’d strong armed Eddie into giving him.  He’s lived alone for the better part of a decade, and in that time, he’s been too busy to spend much time inside his own house let alone have a guest stay so long.

Ever since he was a kid, Richie’s had a sweet tooth, but he’s had to scale it back in recent years (even as a male comedian, he hasn’t been spared the vanity of his industry), opting for the organic versions of some of his gummy favorites and cutting others out entirely.  Eddie’s even healthier than that, which comes as no surprise, maintaining a nearly vegan diet.

Eddie’s flight gets delayed a bit, making Richie comically antsy, and he arrives on Richie’s doorstep just before five looking tired but optimistic, the leash extending from his hand going taut as a medium-sized black and white border collie tries to leap at Richie.  “Barb,” Eddie chides quietly, laughing.

Richie kneels and opens his arms to her, wide.  “BABY!!!”

“You asked for it,” Eddie says, unclipping the leash and letting her knock Richie over.  “Barb, seriously? I’ve never seen her like this.”

Barb won’t stop wiggling in Richie’s arms, giving his face a thorough tongue bath, the vinyl material of her vest making a funny zippery sound against his belt.  “You can just leave her stuff there,” Richie says, pointing to the doorway. “I booked you at the Radisson down the street. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to take her from me,” Eddie muses, starting to drag his suitcases over the threshold.

“Wait wait wait, don’t,” Richie says firmly--and hilariously, this brings the dog right to attention.  She scrambles off of him and sits politely, awaiting instruction. Richie chuckles, scratching one of her ears.  “Not you; your dad.” He turns to Eddie. “Absolutely not. Go sit down, I’ll take care of it. I feel like enough of a schmuck for not being able to pick you up from the airport.”

“Richie, it’s fine--”

“ _Sit._ I’ll give you both a tour in a sec.”  He pulls Eddie’s suitcases in and shuts the door behind him, watching with a smile as Eddie’s eyes scale the walls and ceilings of his home.  “Barb, huh? Is that after Streisand?”

“ _Stanwyck_ ,” Eddie corrects.  “I’m not that gay.” Richie laughs.  Eddie spins on his heels, strolling across the living room and checking out the view through the back of the house.  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but Richie, this is _gorgeous_.  I don’t think she’s gonna want to come back to New York with me when this is over.”

“Plenty of room,” Richie says, reiterating what he’d said the last time they saw each other, in the bar, and finds a small part of him hoping that Eddie decides _he_ doesn’t want to go back to New York, either.

*

Eddie’s walk with Barb gives him a second wind, so he agrees to read through the script with Richie once before dinner.  Being a self-proclaimed TPW (total prop whore), Richie suggests they do as much of the action as they possibly can, scrambling through the house to approximate almost every item that’s mentioned in the script--and even some things that aren’t.  

In the days since the read-through, Richie’s been practicing, almost an embarrassing amount.  What’s even more embarrassing is that all that work goes completely out the window once he’s acting with Eddie.  That’s his first lesson: he can’t really plan the way he says any particular line, the way he did on TFS. Comedy, especially sketch comedy, is kind of musical; you’ve got to hit every note precisely, and it’s way more about how certain words sound than how you feel saying them.  

He does give himself credit for adjusting to what Eddie’s giving him.  He might be passable at this, after all.

Seeing Eddie work is a huge turn-on, knocks Richie completely out of his own head.  As a comedian, there’s nothing more exciting to Richie than commitment, and Eddie is nothing if not committed.  There’s no ego in anything he does; as analytical as he is, he manages to be totally present while they’re reading together.  He’s just totally fucking _there_.  Open to whatever happens.  

Eddie would probably be fantastic at improv, Richie thinks.  He’ll have to get him to play with him some time.

During one of their two breakup scenes in the script--the second one, where they’re older--Eddie nearly makes Richie cry with the tears shimmering in his own eyes.  

When the last words of dialogue are spoken, Richie blows a big breath out of his mouth and groans a wrung-out, “ _Fuck_ ,” tossing the script across the room.  Barb lifts her head to watch it sail, then lowers it back down to rest on her daintily crossed front paws.    

Eddie laughs, loud and bright, clearly grateful to him for diffusing the tension.  “Not an uplifting one, is it?”

“No, sir.”  Richie’s palms slide slowly down his face.  The doorbell rings--their takeout. “Thank God.  Let’s eat our feelings.”

They sit on the lanai over a huge spread from the best vegan place Richie could find, watching the sun set.  He isn’t much of a cook and he’d insisted that Eddie not cook his first night back in town after a long trip.  

“I probably shouldn’t say this,” Richie starts, bringing the neck of his Corona to his lips, “‘cause it’ll tip the power scales your way for this entire shoot.  But you’re really something else, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie blushes a little as he drinks from a bottle of sparkling water.  “How do you mean?”

“You’re fucking _good_ , man.  Just… you’re so real.”  Richie chuckles at himself.  “God, I sound like a fucking moron.  ‘You’re so real.’ Please don’t ever let me talk about acting ever again.”

“Richie, you know what you’re doing.  Stop acting like you don’t. I definitely wouldn’t have signed on to this if I hadn’t been not just confident in you but excited to work with you.”

Richie hums.  “Paycheck probably doesn’t hurt, either.”

Eddie smiles.  “Hey: I doubt I’m getting paid anything near what you are.”  He chucks a piece of soy chicken satay at him, and Richie ducks it with a wince.  

“Touché.”

“Thank you, though,” Eddie says, though he doesn’t look particularly taken with the compliment, more like he really doesn’t give a shit about being seen as good at all.  Like he’d said when they first got drinks, the audience doesn’t matter. “I have pretty intense anxiety,” Eddie says quietly, “so all my stuff is right here.” He waves his free hand around his throat and chest.  “There’s nowhere for me to hide.”

Richie isn’t sure he understands.  His life as a performer has been all about hiding so far, behind wigs and voices and, yes, props.  He’s never been great at stand-up for that very reason. Too exposing. But he’s intrigued. “Any of this hitting home for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“This.”  Richie leans across the table to tap the cover page of Eddie’s script.

Eddie’s brow furrows.  “Um. I don’t really have a point of reference.”

Richie watches him closely.  “No serious relationships?”

“Not really,” Eddie shrugs, leaning back in his chair and watching the breeze make gentle little waves along the surface of Richie’s pool.  “I try, but it’s hard to trust people.” He stops himself, revising. “It’s hard _for me_ to trust people.  Makes it almost impossible to fall in love.”

There’s something about the way Eddie’s voice curls around the word _love_ that makes Richie’s insides collapse.  For how open Eddie’s been so far, this whole conversation feels like a locked door.  Richie wants to smash it open, caveman-style. But before he can pick up that first proverbial rock, Eddie’s poking at him in return.

“How ‘bout you?” he asks.

Richie gives an easy laugh.  “No. Sex is easy; sex is fine.  Relationships I can take or leave.”

Eddie gives him a penetrating, horribly unnerving look like he knows something Richie doesn’t--or maybe that Richie does.  “We’re both a couple of messes, huh?” Somehow Eddie manages to make it sound both hopeful and sad.

“I speak only for myself.”  Richie smiles softly at him.

*

They engage in a pretty awkward dance just before bed.  Somehow they’d dodged discussion of sleeping arrangements when Richie’d given Eddie and Barb a tour of the house earlier.  They look at each other, two sets of eyes wide and bewildered.

Thankfully, Eddie saves them.  “I should probably sleep in one of the guest rooms while I still have this jet lag.”

“Okay,” Richie says quickly.  “We can--I mean, if you want--when you’re ready, I’m open to--”

Eddie laughs quietly, then reaches for Richie, running a hand along the length of one of his arms.  “Let’s play it by ear. Probably better if we ease into it.”

“...Okay.”  Richie can feel every one of his nerves pinging around his face.  He works to school his expression. He blinks. Eddie’s hand is still lingering on his wrist.  “Just… make yourself at home. Anything you need.”

Eddie laughs again, softer.  “Goodnight, Richie.” Then he rises up a little on the balls of his feet and presses a kiss to Richie’s cheek.  The kiss feels just a shade over the line of friendly.

Richie watches as he disappears through the archway on the other side of the house.  

*

The next morning, Richie wakes to a faint whine and a wet nose nudging at the arm he’s got hanging off the side of the bed.  One of his eyes blinks open, landing on the dog he’d totally forgotten spent the night in his home. He smiles, wide and sleepy.  “Hey, Barbarella.” He listens for Eddie, but the house is quiet. “Dad not up yet?” He glances at his watch on the bedside table: eight a.m.  

Barb sits obediently, her tail wagging a little over the rug.  

“Okay,” he grunts, flipping the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  “We’ll let Dad sleep in. I’ll take you on a little adventure.”

After a brief search, he finds Barb’s leash by the back door where Eddie’d left it last night, clips it to her collar, pockets a few treats, and slides the back door open, squinting against the already oppressive sun.  “Oof. Gonna be a hot one today.” He’s glad he opted to stay shirtless, keeping just his sweat shorts and slipping on a pair of sandals.

Living in the hills, he has access to several hiking paths.  Barb eagerly follows, stopping to pee a few times along the way, and picking up a stick for Richie to throw.  He’s reluctant to let her off her leash, though, which he makes sure to explain to her with profuse apologies and promises to let her run wild later--if Eddie allows it.

They’re out for nearly an hour, and by the time they come back, Barb is panting happily and Eddie is out on the lanai in a t-shirt and boxers, drinking from a mug, his hair messy and his eyes puffy but satisfied.  Richie notices his gaze drop briefly down to Richie’s naked torso before darting respectfully back up to his own eyes.

He can’t help thinking that it’s all very dangerous, this trick they’ve started to play on both their minds, this illusion that they’re actually together.

“Good morning,” Eddie says, his voice a soft, raspy thing.  Barb bounds up to him, and he lights up. “Hi, sweetheart. Did Richie take you on a walk?”  She flops onto her back, twisting, and Eddie rubs her stomach. “You’re never gonna want to come back to our shitty little studio in Queens, are you?”

“I intend on spoiling you both every day that you’re here,” Richie says, not giving himself the time to regret the blatant flirtation.  Eddie sits back in his chair and hides his blush with a sip of coffee--or green tea by the looks of it. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Like a rock,” Eddie replies, raspy, then clears his throat.  “I forgot what silence sounds like. It’s nice.”

Richie bites back a smile, all too pleased that Eddie’s already comfortable in his home.  “Well. Don’t get used to it. I sing _all the time._ ”  Before Eddie can inquire, Richie’s taking a deep belly breath and turning wide eyes down to Barb as he croons: “ _Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a partner, sometimes I feel like my only friend…_ ”

Eddie watches patiently as he turns back in the direction of the pool, belting loud enough to scare some of the birds out of the trees.  

“... _IS THE CITY I LIVE IN, THE CITY OF ANGELS.  LONELY AS I AM, TOGETHER WE CRY._ ”  When he turns back, Eddie’s got both hands over his eyes, mortified but still smiling.  Barb howls, and they both laugh.

*

Richie isn’t sure what he expected, but he thought there would at least be more _acting_ involved in this whole arrangement.  But his and Eddie’s first week together is spent just living side by side, floating in and out of each other’s space by day and retiring to opposite sides of the house by night, Barb sometimes torn over who she should follow (which makes Eddie hilariously jealous).  

Despite what Richie’d said to Eddie their first night in the house together, he’s been in love before--well, whatever he believed to be love at those particular times.  Still, he’s never been so taken with the _details_ of someone in his life, the way that he is with Eddie.  Every morning over eggs or cereal, he watches furtively from the kitchen island as Eddie does yoga out on the lanai, the glistening furrow of his brow and the utterly precise way his foot swishes back and forth to smooth out the curled up ends of his mat.

It’s never struck Richie how much he’s wanted someone else living in his space with him until now.  Or maybe he wants to keep Eddie around in the hopes that he’ll will some childhood memories out from the darker recesses of his mind.

On the sixth night, Richie stands restlessly in the living room as Eddie loads up the dishwasher.  “Hey: you wanna watch a movie?”

“I was wondering if that collection was just for show.”  Eddie shakes his wet, washed hands over the sink and dries them off with a tea towel.  

The collection to which Eddie refers is Richie’s comedy vault, a comprehensive (incredibly nerdy) library of comedy shorts, films, and TV shows dating back to the silent era.  “Your pick,” he says, waving a hand at the media wall and flopping down on the big sectional. “I’ve seen ‘em all thousands of times.”

After a long silence, Eddie finally enters, tossing Richie a piece of dark chocolate covered caramel and unwrapping one for himself.  He stuffs his hands in his back pockets and tilts his head, one of Richie’s favorite stances of his; he likes what it does to Eddie’s shoulders.  Eddie’s eyes run over the titles, and Richie watches, sucking every last bit of chocolate off the caramel in his mouth. Barb’s already curled up at Richie’s feet and on her way to snoozing.

Eddie smiles.  “You have a laserdisc player?”

“Some of them are only available that way.”

“Well now I wanna watch a laserdisc,” Eddie says, running his fingers over the thin cases that look like vinyls.  “You know, I’ve gotta be honest: I thought you’d be out at some fancy party every other night of the week.”

“You thought wrong, pumpkin.”  Richie snuggles further into the cushions, wishing he’d changed into sweats but too comfortable to get up.  “I’m partied out, man,” he says, quoting _Wayne’s World._  

Eddie pulls out a collection of Tex Avery cartoons.  

“Good choice,” Richie smiles, watching with major amusement as Eddie peers into the sleeve, his eyes going wide.

“Um.  How do I…?”  Eddie laughs at himself.  “I don’t want to break it.”

Richie heaves himself off the couch and gets everything set up, settling back in right next to Eddie, who leans into his shoulder just as the first short gets started.  “Oh, hello there,” Richie teases, feeling a flirty little buzz of excitement in the pit of his stomach.

“Thought I’d jump right in,” Eddie explains.

“I like it.”

They laugh together through the first cartoon, quietly, and spend even more time talking about how outdated and offensive a lot of the jokes are.  Richie reaches for Eddie’s hand, which has flopped down next to his own thigh, and laces their fingers together. He sees Eddie inhale and then smile out of the corner of his eye.  He tries to pay attention as the vibrant colors flash across their faces.

“I have a question,” Eddie says about halfway through the second cartoon.  “You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”

“...Shoot.”

Eddie still hesitates.  “Have you ever been with a guy, Richie?”

Richie turns so he’s talking right into the hair at the crown of Eddie’s head.  “That’s maybe the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard, Kaspbrak. I expected more from you.”  Eddie laughs. “Yeah, I have.” Eddie’s quiet for a long beat, so Richie gives him a little tickle at his side.  “I’m not kissing and telling, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Stop,” Eddie says, laughing and smacking his hands away.  “Jerkoff.”

“ _Jerkoff?_ Wow.”  Richie moves to tickle him again--he couldn’t help it if he tried--and Eddie scrambles as far as he can without falling off the couch.  

“ _No,_ Richie, no _\--_ I’m really, _really_ fucking ticklish, _don’t_.”

Richie goes for it anyway, just to see Eddie squirm and giggle again, and to feel how warm he is.  Shit, he feels like he’s sixteen. “Did I pass the big gay test with flying colors?” Eddie shrieks.  “Huh?”

“That’s not why I asked!”  Richie finally relents, and Eddie catches his breath.  “That’s not why I asked. I just wanted to know.”

Richie can feel his eyes going soft as he looks at him.  “...Okay. Fair enough.” He scoots back to his original spot and settles in, watching as Eddie rights his clothes.  He curls his palm at him, beckoning. “Come on, snuggle time. Tickle torture is over, I promise.”

Eddie cautiously crawls toward him.  “I know you’re super fucking tall, but I’m pretty strong; I could pin you.”

“That a promise?”  Richie raises an eyebrow.  

“Shithead,” Eddie says under his breath as he snuggles into Richie’s side again.  

Richie’s arm settles around his shoulders.  Eddie feels so comfortable there, so _right_ that Richie can’t help envisioning a different reality than the one they’re in, one where he and Eddie stayed in touch, became high school sweethearts, and married really young.  It practically feels that way.

His next words for Eddie are quiet.  “Do you think we should get the first kiss over with?”

“Um.”  Eddie looks up at him, his eyes wide and honey warm.  “Okay.”

He leans up slightly, and Richie dips down, barely getting Eddie’s top lip.  It’s chaste but promising. When they pull apart, Eddie’s expression is terribly serious, so Richie sticks his tongue out at him to ease the tension.  Eddie does smile, close-mouthed and sweet, ducking his head.

“Should we go for a real one?” Richie asks.  Eddie lifts his eyes again, looking slightly bewildered.  “I’m not trying to be creepy, if you’re not--”

“Let’s try it,” Eddie says, so quickly Richie nearly flinches, his eyes darting down to Richie’s lips before he shifts, sitting upright on the couch so they’re almost level.

Richie swallows, actually nervous, and decides he’ll let Eddie take the wheel on this one.

It starts with Eddie’s fingers on his face, his thumb and his index finger bracketing the corner of his jaw where his stubble’s a couple of days grown in, thumb settling in the divot in his chin.  He leans in slowly, taking in Richie’s expression before capturing Richie’s bottom lip with his mouth. His lips are so full and soft, Richie has to actively try not to fucking melt into the cushions.

He hears the faint sound of Eddie shifting on the couch, moving onto his knees, before he can even think to get his hands on him, anchoring himself with a loose grip on his hips, not wanting to push too hard but figuring it might actually be welcome, the way Eddie’s mouth is moving all lush and wet up against his own.   _Shit._ Eddie’s a crazy good fucking kisser, he thinks, as his tongue slips right into his mouth, brushing coyly against his own and tasting salty-sweet like caramel.  So good Richie wants to tell him _right now_ , but that would mean stopping, and he is not about that.

Before he can get his mind right, Eddie’s pulling away and darting in for one last soft peck--and it’s the sound of that, the precise little _snick_ of their mouths separating that unearths something: a memory.  

So instead of telling Eddie how good a fucking kisser he is, he’s saying, “Not our first kiss,” breathless with the revelation.  Eddie shakes his head, dazed, his hands resting on his shoulders, going tight and then loose on the material of his t-shirt. “What do you remember?  Tell me.”

“I shouldn’t…” Eddie says, his eyes already telling about a thousand stories.  

Richie moves one hand up to cradle his face.  “Tell me,” he urges gently. “Please? I want to know.”

Eddie huffs a big breath through his nose, licking his lips, eyes darting decidedly away from Richie’s.  “Seven minutes in heaven.”

“Hm?”

“Seven minutes in heaven, seventh grade.  Somebody’s birthday party, not one of our friends, not really.  I picked your name out of the hat, and everyone gave me shit for not wanting to go into the closet with you.”  Eddie looks so vulnerable, Richie wants to hold him, closer than before, closer than anyone has. “I started thinking--ironically--that they’d know what I was if I _didn’t_ just laugh it off and go in there with you.  And you didn’t give a shit, so I just grabbed your hand and pulled you in there after me.  At which point, I of course immediately started having an asthma attack.”

Richie watches him, unable to breathe himself.

“You kept saying, ‘It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything, we don’t have to do it, it’s okay.’  But that made it worse; it just made me feel more alone. You got my inhaler out of my pocket for me, but it didn’t help.  I was convinced I was going to suffocate in that fucking closet.”

“Would’ve been poetic,” Richie can’t help but say--and almost apologizes for it except that Eddie gives him a wry, grateful smile.  

“Yeah, would’ve been.  Um.” Eddie’s voice goes softer and kind of raspy.  “And then you just grabbed my face and said, ‘Eddie, look at me, look at me.’  And you kissed me--not for a joke or anything. A real kiss. And just like that, I could breathe again.”  Eddie holds his hand up preemptively. “Before you get smug, the kiss itself wasn’t that great. But it was my first,” Eddie shrugs.  “So--belatedly--thank you.”

Richie thinks he might actually cry.  He clears his throat. “I wish I re--”

“I know,” Eddie waves him off.  “It’s okay. It was one of the first things that came up for me in therapy, around coming to terms with who I was.  Who I am. And it look a lot of digging, believe me. My shrink used to call me Fort Knox.”

“If you’re Fort Knox, I’m the fucking Pentagon.”

Eddie looks intrigued by Richie’s joke.

“Stay with me tonight?”

“What?”

“Sleep in bed with me.  I won’t try anything, I promise.”

“I know that; I trust you,” Eddie says, finally removing his hands from Richie’s shoulders and letting them come to rest limply in his own lap.  “I just… don’t sleep well, in general. Having Barb nearby helps, but I might be up once or twice. Or a lot--depending on what my brain decides to dish out.”

“I can handle it,” Richie says with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

“Okay,” Eddie says, and Richie braces himself, expecting--hoping for--another kiss that ultimately doesn’t come, not the rest of that night, anyway.


	4. Rehearsal Pt. 2

Richie wakes with a start the next morning, the sky coming in that dim blue through his curtains the way it does just before the sun’s about to break.  Eddie’s fast asleep, silent, curled up as far on the other end of the bed as possible, face turned down so he’s kissing the pillowcase, hair a curly chestnut cloud against the dark grey bed sheets.  

Every inch of Richie screams at him to touch, to get closer.  He’d like to be able to chalk it up to not having had anyone stay over in this bed with him in ages, but deep down he knows it’s more than that.  He remembers the way Eddie’d cradled his face and kissed him last night, practically drawing Richie’s soul up and out of his body through his mouth, and he shivers at the memory.  

It’s barely been a week, and they have two more to go, not to mention filming.  

Barb breaks the silence with a little snore-sigh from her bed by the back doors.  

With a grimace, Richie reaches for his phone on the bedside table, noting the time--five-thirty--and, deciding she probably has her phone on silent anyway, shoots a text to Bev asking if she wants to come over for a lazy Sunday, complete with homemade brunch and drinks by the pool.  

He sets the phone down and turns back to Eddie, making sure he’s still out, which he is, and then taking the opportunity to look his fill again.  He envisions what he would do if they _were_ together like that, not just pretend, how he’d push his thumb against the shadow on Eddie’s jaw just to feel the change in texture between his stubble and the soft skin of his cheek.  He’d kiss his shoulder, his adam’s apple, then his neck until he’d stir.

_Shit._ Would it be too desperate to call Bev and beg her to come over right the fuck now?  Richie wonders.

He finally tears his eyes away and eases his end of the covers aside, getting to his feet and out of the bedroom as quickly and quietly as he can.  He’s not going back to sleep, so he might as well hop on the treadmill and get a workout in.

After forty-five minutes of running in place--and another half hour of lifting heavy things--Richie feels about halfway to comfortable.  He drains glass after glass of water, until Barb comes trotting into the living room and then the kitchen to say good morning. “Hey, you,” he says, his heart giving one of those lurches again as he pets her.  His eyes lift to the archway, the one leading to his bedroom, but Eddie doesn’t show.

“Come on,” he says quietly, urging her toward the back door, where he gathers up her leash.  He might as well take her on a hike, work towards getting the rest of the way comfortable.

By the time they return, Eddie’s on the lanai in what’s become his usual spot drinking from his usual mug, and Richie’s in way better spirits.  His hike with Barb had quickly turned into more of a play session, with lots of sprinting and lots of fetch.

Eddie’s got his script open in his lap.  

“Already?  Stop it, you’re making me look bad.”

Eddie gives him a cute smirk, lifting a hand to shield his eyes and squinting into the sun.  “Lines aren’t going to memorize themselves.”

“Sleep okay?”  Richie moves into a lunge, finally stretching out his legs.  Eddie nods quietly, pushing the fur back on Barb’s head. “Hope you don’t mind, but I invited Bev over for brunch.”

“ _Oh._ ”  Eddie looks surprised and maybe slightly disappointed, Richie thinks.  He recovers quickly. “That’s great. I’d love to see her.”

“Also, I’m sure this goes without saying, but I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner here.  You _can_ go out and do things.  I dunno, take meetings, whatever.”

Eddie settles back with his script, sounding wry.  “That’s assuming I have meetings to take, Richie.”

Richie taps himself on the forehead.  “That’s right, I forgot. You’re the brooding unknown who appeared out of thin air to grace us with his method acting.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says with a little laugh.  

“Hope you brought your bathing suit,” Richie says, slapping him playfully on the shoulder as he hops his way back into the house.  

*

Bev wrings her hair out over the tile on the lanai, wipes her feet, then slides the back door open, giving Richie a bright, somewhat inebriated smile.  Her feet make slappy little sounds on the floor as she walks over to accept the fresh margarita he’s just finished fixing her. She and Eddie have been attached at the hip for more than an hour, Richie giving them the space to catch up and marvel over each other, interrupting only to give them food, drink, or a punchline.

They’d settled at the far end of the pool, both leaning over the edge on their forearms, backs to him, murmuring in a way that set the hair on Richie’s calves on end.  

Bev doesn’t beat around the bush once she’s inside.  “So how are you handling all this, Slick?”

“What?”  Richie plays dumb as he pushes a wedge of lime into the neck of his Corona.  “It’s great having him here.”

“A little too great, maybe?”  She shakes her head, gripping the sides of the margarita glass as a lifeline.  “He’s _such_ a fucking _babe_.”

Richie simply ducks his head, fighting a smile and bumping her hip with his own.  The contact, their cool, slightly damp skin pressing briefly together brings something up for him.  It’s right there, so close he can taste it, like the cocktail of chlorine, pineapple, and lime on the back of his tongue, and just as quickly, it’s gone.  

Bev furrows her brow at him.  “You okay?” she asks, before proceeding to suck down almost half of her drink.

“Do you remember how we met?  You and me.” The question comes out frustrated and faint.

She settles her weeping glass on the counter and braces her ice cold, wet palms on his cheeks.  “I prefer to not think of that dark time when we didn’t know each other, my love.” Then she pulls his face down so she can kiss him on the forehead.  She leans so close he can count her pale freckles. “He is a babe, though, right?”

“Yah,” Richie says, in full Valley Girl, “total babe.”

The whole setup of the afternoon was meant to take the edge off for Richie, but there’s something about it that has him tingling.  Maybe it’s the booze or the sun or the way his wet bathing suit clings to his own lower half.

Maybe it’s Eddie’s browning, glistening skin and the way he smiles at Bev like they’ve got secrets.  

Richie returns with his beer and retreats to his usual lounge chair in the shade so he doesn’t regret this idea entirely later and wince at every touch of fabric to his burnt skin.  He tips a baseball cap over his eyes, throws his arms over the back of the chair, and pretends to sleep, listening to the lull of Bev and Eddie’s voices at the far end of the pool and their limbs slicing gently through the water.  

He’s almost fallen into an actual nap when an unforgiving spray of cold water gets him, flashing up and down and back and forth like he’s been unwittingly sent through a car wash.  He spits the stray spray that got into his mouth and shakes his head, righting his hat and slitting his eyes open, expecting Bev but discovering a soaking wet Eddie hovering above him, hands braced on the lounge chair arms, full-on headbanging over Richie’s torso.  When Richie finally reaches full consciousness and starts to sputter, “Hey--wha--,” Eddie pushes his wet curly tendrils out of his face and smiles, his dark, wet eyelashes making his eyes glow.

He tries to get both legs back over one side of the chair and make a fast exit, but Richie’s limbs are too long and he’s too quick himself, tickling Eddie’s warm, wet skin until he falls right onto him, making the lounge chair creak in protest.

“ _Oof_.  Too much seitan fried rice, Kaspbrak,” he teases, tickling mercilessly, the two of them a mess of wet and dry, pale and tan, screaming and laughing.  

“ _Stop!_ ” Eddie shouts, trying to get a hold of Richie’s dancing hands.  “I’ll seriously pee on you.”

Richie doesn’t stop.  “Dreams do come true, ladies and gentlemen.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Eddie laughs, managing to get onto his knees and get his bearings, slithering out of Richie’s grasp and delivering a little wet slap to his face before darting off in the direction of the outdoor bathroom at the side of the house.

Richie watches him for a long moment before he finally notices Bev making her way toward his end of the pool, the shallow end.  She wraps her arms around herself, doing that tried and true self-makeout visual gag.

“How old are you?” he groans quietly.

She holds a palm up next to her mouth, whispering theatrically.  “Old enough to know what gay flirting looks like.”

Richie shakes a halfhearted fist at her, already lowering his body back down to lounging position.  “ _One of these days, Alice._ ”

Bev scoffs.  “ _You’re_ the Alice, Alice.”

She begs off pretty soon after that, and Eddie helps Richie clean up as the sun starts to dip below the hills, the two of them still buzzed and loose and finding little method to the task.  Richie finds himself stupidly already looking forward to curling up together again that night, feeling the heat from Eddie’s body from across the bed in his cold bedroom. He’s looking forward to seeing him first thing when he wakes up, too.

Barb paws at the door, and both their heads whip over to her.  “Aww, baby,” Richie says, then offers to take her out with the excuse of having eaten too much actual bacon and needing to walk it off.

He’s uncharacteristically efficient about it, and finds himself having to urge Barb along more than usual as a result.  He can see it in her eyes: _Wait, we’re not playing fetch?  We’re not going the long way?_ “No, baby, sorry,” he says, finishing under his breath: “I’m too eager to torture myself lusting after your dad, apparently.”

When they slip in through the back, Barb trots off to the other end of the house, toward the guest rooms, where Richie eventually hears Eddie greet her quietly.  Even though his voice is muffled, Richie can tell he’s drowsy and maybe still a little drunk. He idles in the living room, dumb, looking for something to do that won’t make it seem like the wordless, choreographed version of, _You coming to bed, dear?_ that it is.  

Just as he gives up and starts heading for his bedroom (to change and come back and continue this stupid dance), Eddie appears through the archway.  

“Hey.  I think I’m gonna stay in the guest room tonight.”

Richie offers him a wry smile as he turns.  “Aw. I snored last night, didn’t I?”

“No,” Eddie says, looking nothing like the playful, golden adonis he’d been earlier in the afternoon.  He wears a loose t-shirt and fiddles with the strings on his navy sweat shorts. “I just--I’m still tipsy.  I’ll probably be up a lot.”

“Puking?” Richie asks, ready to set him up with whatever he needs for that scenario.

“ _No_ ,” Eddie laughs a little, “just peeing, like, thirty times.”

“‘Kay,” Richie says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Are you up for working tomorrow?  Dig in to the script?”

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

Eddie nods, giving him a brisk goodnight and shuffling away--no affection, no anything--sucking his teeth at Barb, who’d wandered in to see what they were up to, to get her to follow him back into the guest room.  

It’s a weird fucking interaction, especially considering how much closer they’ve gotten in the week Eddie’s been there, and Richie sleeps like total shit as a result.  He tosses and turns for almost two hours, then alternates between reading Dave Itzkoff’s book on Robin Williams and streaming old episodes of _Saved by the Bell_ until he finally passes out around three.

He meets Eddie in his sleep: an incredibly vivid dream where they’re back in high school and in his parents’ basement, the walls still wood-paneled and the TV a box with a rotating channel wheel, the tape holding the frames of his old glasses together a white blur in his periphery.  They’re not doing anything, just hanging out, trying to watch whatever vague images dance across the little square screen across the room while his parents shuffle around upstairs, their feet making creaking sounds across the ceiling.

Eddie looks so _young_ , Richie feels a well of protectiveness in the pit of his stomach.  He looks down, expecting to see the shitty beige carpeting with soda stains his parents also never bothered to pull up or replace but instead finding a body of water.  It’s dark and lapping beneath the couch violently, sending it rocking, though Eddie doesn’t seem to notice at all. Richie grips the arm of the couch and leans over the side to get a closer look, see if he can actually see beneath the surface, bringing his face so close he can almost smell the sewage.  

_Sewage?  How do you know it’s--_

They hit a shallow wave, and just as the water’s about to splash up in his face, Richie wakes up.

*

“Don’t I know you?”

“No.”

“I do; we’ve met before.”

“We have not.”

“Don’t you remember?  It was that convention last fall: the one for super attractive people.”

“I didn’t get an invite to that one.  You must be thinking of someone else.”

“I’m not.  Tall, pretty eyes, cautious.  I’d know you anywhere.”

“Can’t you just talk to me like I’m a person?  ‘Hi, I’m Blah, what’s your name?’ Then I’d say, ‘I’m Jeremy.  Nice to meet you, Blah.’”

“Where’s the fun in that?”  A measured pause. “Hi, Jeremy.  I’m Tom. I think you’re cute. Do you wanna get out of here?”

Eddie groans loud, breaking the spell.  “I _hate_ my fucking dialogue in this scene.  It’s so cheesy.”

Richie bites back a smile; it’s comforting seeing Eddie get unhinged by the work.  “Well, I think it’s supposed to be, right? He uses this same horrible formula on every guy he meets--and it works.  Or maybe it just works because you’re playing him,” he says, half flirting and half simply speaking what he thinks should be obvious.

Eddie smacks his thigh with the back of his hand, brow still furrowed as he reviews the script.  He sighs. “I fucking hate this.” He turns his whole body to Richie on the couch, shaking his shoulders.  “This isn’t fun for me. Please make this fun.”

“Okay,” Richie stands, energized by his mission to make Eddie feel more confident--and by Eddie’s confidence in his ability to do that.  “Let’s play a game. It’s called First Available Opportunity. We used to do it all the time on TFS to play with rhythms and pacing and stuff.  But I think it could be good for this scene.”

“How does it work?”

“We do the scene again, but instead of obeying the dialogue as it’s written--you say your line, I say my line--we each speak our next words at the first available opportunity.  As soon as it makes sense for you to cut in with your next line, just cut right in. Don’t worry about interrupting me or talking over me.”

Eddie pinches his pursed lips between his thumb and forefinger.  “I think I know what you mean. Let’s try it.”

He stands, walking a few yards away so he can approach the way that it’s indicated in the scene.  Richie lounges on the sofa, pretending it’s a bar.

Eddie-as-Thomas walks over.  Before he can even get the first word out, Richie’s cutting him off with a loud, “ _NO_.”  They both bust up immediately, Eddie throwing his head back and cackling as he walks away.  

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” Richie says, beckoning him back.  “I won’t go so hard this time. But you get the impulse, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye and getting back into his starting position across the living room.   

He walks over.  “Don’t I--”

“No,” Richie says as Jeremy, quiet but dismissive.

“I do; we’ve met--”

“We have not.”

Eddie doesn’t even pause for a breath this time, picking his cue right up.  “Don’t you remember? It was that convention last fall--the one for super attractive people.”

“I didn’t get an invite to that one.  You must be thinking of someone e--”

“I’m not.  Tall, pretty eyes--”

The momentum they’ve created has Richie exploding.  “CAN’T YOU JUST TALK TO ME LIKE I’M A PERSON?”

Eddie can’t help but laugh, but he manages to find his first available opportunity again.  “Where’s the fun in that?”

Richie drives forward as if he didn’t hear him.  “‘Hi, I’m Blah, what’s your name?’ Then I’d say, ‘I’m Jeremy--’”

“Hi, Jeremy.  I’m Tom.” Eddie lets it hang there, and they stare at each other.  The air feels suddenly charged. Eddie sits next to him and leans in real close, one hand braced on Richie’s thigh.  “I think you’re cute. Do you wanna get out of here?”

Richie wishes he could sit on his hands to prevent himself from grabbing Eddie’s face and planting one on him.  

Thankfully, Eddie breaks out of the scene before he does.  “Oh my _God_.  That was totally different.”  His hand is still on Richie’s thigh.

“Fun, right?”

“ _Yes_.  And you’re right; it did make sense for the scene.  When you kept interrupting me, I felt like I was being a transparent, cheesy asshole.”

“It also made it feel like you weren’t the first guy to come up to me with some bullshit line that night.  Like, I was already super defensive about it.”

“ _Yeah!_ ”  Eddie finally pulls his hand back, flicking the pages back to the top of the scene.  “What else can we do?”

“You mean what else have I got in my Mary Poppins bag of acting tricks?” Richie affects an exaggerated, posh British accent.  

Eddie smiles fondly at him, shaking his head.  “You’re a mess.”

Richie stands, pacing a little.  “You’ll be eating those words when I’ve nabbed us both a Golden Globe, sweet thang.”

Eddie scrunches his nose, feigning judgment.  “No Oscar?”

“C’mere,” Richie says, suddenly inspired, urging Eddie into the kitchen.  “This works better for a bar.” He ditches his script, tossing it onto the counter.  “Do you think you can do it off book?”

Eddie nods, following him, tossing his script so it lays sideways on top of Richie’s.

“Okay.  Tell me if you’re not comfortable with this.  When I first got to LA, we did this in my old sketch group when we didn’t know how to write and our dialogue was dogshit.  Other dogs, Barb, not you,” Richie calls to where she’s laying by the back door. “Your shit should be a currency rivaling the Canadian Dollar, and I love you.”

“If only,” Eddie mutters.

“So: when the dialogue was terrible, we’d have everyone pick one clear physical objective and just go with it for the entire scene.”

Eddie seems more familiar or at least more comfortable with this concept.  “So my objective in this scene would be to get closer to you.”

“Right.  And mine would be to reject you.”  Richie suddenly realizes he’s not sure he can actually do this; there isn’t a single touch Eddie’s given that he hasn’t wanted to take.  

“Is there anywhere you don’t like to be touched?” Eddie asks.

Richie laughs, shrugging.   _Not when it comes to you, apparently_ , he thinks.  “Not really,” he says.

Eddie catches him off guard, stepping in close right away, trapping him between his arms, hands braced on the counter on either side of Richie’s hips.  “Don’t I know you?”

“No,” Richie says, immediately removing one of Eddie’s hands from the counter and stepping deftly out of the way.  

To Eddie’s credit, he doesn’t fall into the trap of being unrealistic about it; Thomas is overly flirty and promiscuous but he isn’t a creep. So instead of trying to forcibly make his way back into Richie’s space, he reaches for his hand and plays with his fingers.  “I do; we’ve met before.”

Richie politely pushes Eddie’s hand away, already missing the contact.  “We have not.”

It’s as if Eddie can read the conflict right on his face--because he reaches for his hand again, as if he knows it’ll be welcome the second time.  “Don’t you remember? It was that convention last fall. The one for super attractive people,” Eddie says, all coy body language, fingers pushing into the spaces between Richie’s, totally disarming him.

Richie swallows.  “I didn’t get an invite to that one.  You must be thinking of someone e--”

“I’m not,” Eddie says, totally confident, marrying a bit of their last exercise to this one.  He reaches for Richie’s other hand, slowly walking him back against the other end of the kitchen counter, practically purring.  “Tall, pretty eyes, cautious.” Richie’s back hits the counter, and Eddie physically plants Richie’s hands onto his own hips. “I’d know you anywhere.”

“Can’t--.”  Richie sputters, struggling to remember the next line as Eddie’s hands come up, one pushing through his stubble, the other dipping under the collar of his shirt, fingers dancing over his clavicle.  “Can’t you just talk to me like I’m a person?” His voice is a quick, nervous whisper. “‘Hi, I’m Blah, what’s your name?’ Then I’d say, ‘I’m Jeremy. Nice to meet you, Blah.’”

Eddie rises up on his toes, mouth centimeters from Richie’s.  “Where’s the fun in that?” He turns Richie’s face so his lips brush up against his ear as he speaks the final lines.  “Hi, Jeremy. I’m Tom. I think you’re cute. Do you wanna get out of here?”

Richie nods, gracefully easing his way out from under Eddie’s hands to pour himself a very needed glass of water.  “Good. That felt good,” he says, going for breezy but probably sounding like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.  

“Yeah,” Eddie echoes, picking his script back up and retreating to the couch again.

“Hey,” Richie says after gulping down half the glass.  “Is there a safe word in method acting?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.  “What do you mean?”

Richie’s about to say _, Like in sex_ , but he doesn’t want to spook Eddie or make it about that.  Besides, the little experience he’s had with “scene-y” sex was with people he’s not sure were actually doing it right, anyway.  “If it’s too much for either of us, or if one of us is uncomfortable with something.”

“ _Oh_.  Yeah.  That’s a great idea.”  He can hear Eddie flipping through the script.  “What’s a word that’s not in the script? One we’re not going to use in rehearsal or anything.”

“ _Merkin_?”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s basically a wig for--”

“I know what a fucking merkin is.   _No_ , Richie,” Eddie laughs, then goes quiet again.  “Oh! _Taniwha_.”

“Tanny-who?”  Richie retrieves his script and walks around the island back into the living room, finding a resolute-looking Eddie on the sectional.  

“Taniwha.   _T-a-n-i-w-h-a._ It’s a Maori thing.  It’s a mythical creature that lives in deep bodies of water.  Sorta like the Loch Ness Monster.”

Richie stares at him, remembering his dream.  “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“What?  There’s no way we’re going to use that word in rehearsal.  Or during filming.”

“No, I’m on board: _taniwha_ ?”  Eddie nods.  “Just…” Richie sits way on the other end of the sofa, running a nervous hand through his hair where it’s long on top--and getting longer.  At least he’s been able to enjoy letting _some_ things go.  “Do you ever have dreams?  About when we were kids.”

Eddie shakes his head.  “I still have dreams about my mom sometimes.  But… no. Not really. I don’t think my brain likes remembering what that time felt like.”

It’s a private admission, one that makes Richie want to reciprocate, tell Eddie all about his dream.  But if he doesn’t like remembering being that age, maybe…

“Why?  Do you?”

“Have dreams?”  Richie curls his script up in his hand, tapping out a beat on his own thigh.  “Sort of. I think.” He gives Eddie what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “But baby Eddie isn’t in them; don’t worry.”


	5. Rehearsal Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, y'all. I'm going through some intense shit IRL, so updates may be a little more spaced than usual. This one's short but pretty full, I think - so hope you enjoy it. <3

Their director, an indie up-and-comer named Tora Levy, starts pulling them in for official rehearsals the following week.  They start chronologically by the script--and thus with the less challenging scenes first. Or so Richie thinks. 

It feels slightly awkward in the way that first rehearsals always do, though Eddie doesn’t show any signs of insecurity or discomfort.  It also feels slightly different from the way it felt when it was just the two of them in Richie’s house. There’s a self-awareness that’s cropped up that Richie is both utterly familiar with and hates.

Tora looks patient as she sits them down after a couple of hours.  “Don’t take this the wrong way; I feel like you’re distancing a little bit.”  She looks at Eddie pointedly. “Both of you.”

Finally, now that Eddie is no longer in a scene, his sheen of self-assuredness has fallen away.  He curls his script up in his hands, eyes hovering somewhere on the floor between his knees. Richie immediately squashes the strange, sudden impulse to comfort him.  

“You have actual history with each other, don’t you?”  Tora’s smile is soft and curious. “We haven’t talked about that.”

“Ancient history,” Richie smirks.

“We don’t remember much,” Eddie explains.

I  _ don’t remember much.  You’re Fort Knox, remember? _  Richie bites back this retort.  

“Well, maybe it’s worth exploring.  Or trying to, anyway. See what you  _ do _ remember from that time, even if it has nothing to do with each other.”

Eddie looks even more uneasy, if that’s at all possible.

“And find ways to be closer to each other physically,” she adds, with a caveat: “Within the realm of what’s comfortable for you.  There won’t be anywhere to hide then.”

Richie takes a deep breath.  “Uhh… any suggestions?” He needs  _ some  _ sense of boundary.

She screws her mouth up thoughtfully.  “Run your lines while hugging or holding each other, even if it doesn’t make sense for the scene.  Stuff like that. Just… get more comfortable in each other’s space.”

Richie thinks of their first kiss on the couch--well, second kiss.  Third kiss. Whatever. Not to mention the stunt Eddie pulled by the pool when Bev was over.  Little does their director know. It hasn’t been so structured or conscious, though, he supposes.  (Not that he knows of.)

That night, Richie’s sitting up with the Robin Williams biography, and Eddie comes in with a sweet little, “Hi,” the bottoms of his jeans dragging on Richie’s bedroom floor.  

Richie inhales, glancing up above the rim of his glasses.  “ _ Hi. _ ”

With no more preamble than that, Eddie shuffles over to the bed, hops on, and wiggles his way between Richie and the hardcover book, settling between his thighs, head resting back on one of Richie’s shoulders.  

Richie stiffens.  “Being a good little student?”

“Worth a try.  It does feel like we got sent to the principal’s office.”

Eddie smells like the lemon verbena hand soap Richie put in the guest bathroom, his hair soft against the skin on Richie’s neck.  And he’s warm everywhere. Richie hesitates, taking one hand off the book and pushing it through Eddie’s hair. 

Tora was right; being close like this immediately starts stirring shit up.  Nothing concrete, just that same deep, protective feeling from that dream he had, the one with the couch and all that swirling water.  

Eddie settles in, and Richie keeps his book open, half-reading it as Eddie lays there looking and feeling right at home. 

“What scene are  _ you _ most worried about?”

“The sex scene,” Eddie replies, laughter in his voice.  “I’ve never done one before. Not for film, anyway. Though I guess I’ll just put it in Tora’s hands.”

“ _ Heyo _ ,” Richie smiles into Eddie’s ear.  

Eddie nudges his calf with his foot.  “Shut up. It’s just…  _ nudity _ , you know?”  He shivers comically. 

“It’s not like it’s full frontal,” Richie says, dog-earing the page of his book and setting it down on the duvet beside them.  “And anyway, Kaspbrak, you’re extremely easy on the eyes. You have zero to be bashful about.”

Eddie’s quiet for a long moment.  Richie can see him blushing. “It’s more just being naked in a room full of people I’m not having sex with, but thank you.”  He turns to Richie slightly, his voice going thick with the strain on his throat in that position. “What scene are  _ you _ most worried about?”

Richie blows out a dramatic exhale.  “I think when we get back together after the first breakup.”

“Why are you worried?”

“It just needs the right level of intensity, you know?  But it can’t be melodramatic.” Eddie hums in agreement. 

There’s a comfortable lull, and Richie considers picking his book back up, when Eddie gently observes, “I like your hands.”

“Hm?”

“I like your hands.  They feel nice.”

“Thanks,” Richie says stupidly, his skin going hot.  

Eddie takes up the hand that’s not pushing through his hair, the one resting respectfully around his ribs--not too low, though maybe Richie shouldn’t be the one setting boundaries for them--and turns it over, examining the hair on Richie’s knuckles.  He chuckles quietly to himself. “You’re such a  _ man _ now.  It’s so weird.”

Richie huffs a laugh.  “What?”

“I remember when you were…”  Eddie cuts himself off.

Richie threatens a tickle at his side.  “When I was what?”

Eddie licks his lips, leaning his head further into Richie’s shoulder.  “When you were just this gangly mess of awkward features. After you got really tall in high school, you were such a klutz; you could barely walk a straight line down the halls.  And your head was way too big for your body--and your glasses only exacerbated how big it was. You’d come careening towards me looking like Gumby in a black curly wig.”

“ _ Uh _ , excuse me, we can’t all  _ glide _ through puberty with the grace of a wood nymph,” he retorts, though Richie honestly can’t remember how Eddie fared through the growing pains of adolescence--though if how he looks today is any indication, Richie’d say he did pretty fucking fantastic.

“You were still beautiful,” Eddie says quickly.  “I always thought so.” Before Richie can reply--though, to be fair, he has no fucking clue what to say to that--Eddie continues.  “It’s just… you grew into all those big features. Your shoulders got broader, and you’ve got hair here now.” He fingers the strands of dark hair sprouting across the back of his hand.  “When did that even happen?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I still feel like Gumby in a wig most of the time.”

Eddie turns and gives his profile a long look, then presses a soft kiss behind his ear that makes Richie’s eyelids go heavy.  “I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

Despite rehearsal that afternoon, Richie goes to bed feeling hopeful--because it’s clear that Eddie will be joining him there again. 

*

Eddie takes this forced intimacy a step further every day over the next week, with little touches and hugs and cuddles, until one morning, he kisses Richie, just plants one on him right in the kitchen after he’s finished steeping his green tea.  Just a sweet, domestic little pressing of mouths, a wordless  _ good morning, honey _ .

As he’s about to turn on his heel and head towards the guest room, Richie takes a major chance, setting Eddie’s mug aside and pulling him in for more: a series of soft, wet  _ just cause it’s morning doesn’t mean I don’t want you _ kisses.  Eddie smiles against his mouth and lets out these pleased little hum-sighs that drive Richie absolutely  _ nuts _ , his small palms landing on Richie’s chest, Richie’s own hands consuming the sides of his face.

When Richie finally pulls away for a breather, Eddie licks his lips, his eyes full of fire.  “I have to take a  _ shower _ ,” he protests, feigning an attempt to pull away.

Richie tilts his head and purses his lips in consideration.  “Taste good to me.” This prompts his caveman voice: “Taste very good.”  Then he nudges Eddie up against the kitchen counter for a more penetrating kiss, hands cradling his jaw and hips anchoring him there, until Eddie pulls away with finality, flushed and breathless and looking more serious than before. 

“ _ Seriously _ ,” he says, glancing down to Richie’s lips one last time.  “Shower.”

Richie nods.  “Shower.” Then he kisses his forehead and lets him go, running a hand through his own bedhead as he watches him disappear through the archway, then breathes a quiet  _ holy shit  _ to himself.

*

Later in the week, Eddie suggests they face Richie’s fear and dive into the scene where they get back together for the first time.  They’ve only read through it a couple of times and never faced it head-on in any of their rehearsals, alone or with Tora. Richie immediately gets a knot in his stomach, though he pastes on a smile and a voice and grunts an eager-sounding, “ _ Let’s do this, Spaghetti. _ ”

He hates everything about it, from the moment before he even starts his first line.  He’s totally in his head. He’s not connecting. He doesn’t know how to fucking act; why did he think he could do this?  

Eddie’s patient.  So, so patient. He doesn’t stop them; he just lets Richie get out the entire shitty first attempt.  And when it’s done, he grimaces, pretending like he’s just as intimidated by the dialogue as Richie is.  “Yeah, this scene  _ is _ hard.”

“I hate it.”

Eddie’s eyes soften.  “I have an idea. You should like this.”  He gathers their scripts and tosses them aside.  “Let’s improvise the scene. We know the circumstances.  Let’s just forget the dialogue and play it out.”

“...Okay.”  Richie  _ should _ like this exercise, except he still feels like quitting the movie altogether and running back into the loving arms of comedy.  “What’s our safe word again?”

“ _ Taniwha _ .”

Richie inhales, taking up his starting position at the front door.  “ _ Taniwha _ .”  

The circumstances of the scene are that Jeremy left Thomas after a heated argument six years in the making.  They’ve been apart for exactly thirty days when Jeremy comes back home without warning. 

Eddie settles himself onto the living room sofa and turns on the TV, so Richie fully leaves the house, giving it a good two minutes or so before he reenters with all the trepidation Jeremy would feel.  Eddie-as-Thomas is pretending to not look at him. Richie takes a brief moment to silently applaud just how fucking well Eddie knows his character before sinking back into the scene. 

Richie-as-Jeremy is the first to talk.  “Hi.”

“Hi.”  A long pause as Eddie looks him over.  “Are you here to…?”

The full question left unspoken is clearly  _ Are you here to pick up your things? _ _ Shit _ , Richie thinks, nearly losing the moment again.   _ That’s right; that’s exactly what Thomas would be thinking, even though the script doesn’t mention anything about it.   _

“No,” Richie answers meekly, standing there for a long silent moment, the keys to his own house hanging from his fingers like a foreign object.  They stare at each other.  _ For an improv, there’s a fuck of a lot less dialogue than there is in the actual script _ , Richie thinks.  But it makes sense for the scene.  “Can I sit down?”

Eddie sighs before moving his feet off of the edge of the sectional where he was lounging them.  He keeps the TV on. 

“I’m not here to pick up my stuff.”

“Then why are you here?” Eddie snaps, though there’s something boyish and vulnerable underneath it.  

Richie can’t help but think of the final scene in  _ Jerry Maguire _ ; he tamps down the urge to say,  _ I’m looking for my wife.   _ “I didn’t want to not be here anymore.”  Eddie doesn’t react. “I forced myself to give it thirty days, but I honestly wanted to come home after three.”  Richie looks at Eddie’s implacable face, effortlessly finding the sweetness that so many miss. “You’re not easy, Tom.”  Eddie avoids his gaze, and Richie can’t help but smile a little. “You know that.”

“So why did you want to come back?”

Richie smiles.  Eddie--Thomas--is such a little shit.  Richie doesn’t reply; he just scoots closer and runs his thumb gently over the divot in his chin.  This brings tears to Eddie’s eyes. “Hey,” Richie says gently, moving in--tentatively--and gathering him up under his arm, seemingly against his will until Eddie crumbles, nuzzling his wet face into Richie’s shoulder. 

Eventually, Eddie says, “Don’t leave me again.”

“What?”  Richie lifts Eddie’s chin so he can thumb the tears from his cheeks.  

“Don’t leave me again.”  Firmer this time, even through fresh tears. 

“What do you--”

“You left me.  You forgot me.”

It’s one of those moments where Richie quickly realizes the character has dropped away and Eddie’s working through something of his own  _ through _ Thomas.  He’s seen it happen a couple of times already, and it’s always fascinating, breathtaking, and a little scary.  

“Don’t forget me,” Eddie pleads.  “Don’t forget me this time.”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t--”

“You  _ did _ .  You did.  You forgot everything.”  Eddie’s voice is starting to sound a little raw.  He clutches at Richie. “Don’t do that again.  _ Please. _ ”

It’s the  _ please _ that does Richie in, that really nails it home that Thomas is no longer there in the space between them.  He presses a fierce kiss to Eddie’s mouth. “I won’t. I won’t, I promise.”

“You will,” Eddie wails.  “You’ll forget me again.”

He’s quickly becoming inconsolable.  Richie is tempted to say  _ taniwha _ , but he doesn’t want to interrupt the spell Eddie has going, either.  

Ultimately, it’s Eddie who ends up safewording.  He lets out a huge breath as though coming out of some form of hypnosis.  “ _ Taniwha _ ,” he croaks, wiping the tears from his face.  “ _ Shit. _ ”

Richie silently reaches out and takes one of his hands.

“I’m okay,” Eddie insists.  “Was just… testing, I guess.  I don’t know where that came from or where it was going.”  He’s still swiping at his face. He smiles. “Which is exciting.”  He laughs, relieved, squeezing Richie’s hand back. “That felt really good.  I’ve never gone that deep before. It was a lot.” 

Richie watches as his free hand flutters at his side, near his hip.  “Do you need something?”

“What?” Eddie asks, startled from his reverie again.  He consciously stills his free hand. “No. I’m fine. I’m good.”  He smiles again, toothy and breathless. “That was  _ really good _ .”

Inside, Richie is beaming. 


	6. The Night Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm so excited to be back with this. I've missed these two. <3
> 
> *The song mentioned is "All Night Thing" by Temple of the Dog. Highly recommend it!

Their last rehearsal has Richie feeling stronger than he ever expected to.  Even if Eddie was the one driving that emotional breakthrough, he was able to stay present while it happened and not crack a joke.  They shared it.

He can feel Eddie’s confidence grow along with his own, as if they’re both starting to finally feel like they’ll get where they need to go to tell this story--and not a moment too soon, since shooting starts the next day.

At Tora’s urging, they let themselves off the hook for the entire day before: no talk about acting or their characters, no looking at the script, no talk about their personal lives or their pasts.  They just bullshit about innocuous stuff -- favorite reality shows, desserts that are better in vegan form (as convincing as Eddie is, Richie still doesn’t fucking buy it) -- while taking long strolls with Barb.  

Around mid-afternoon, Bev calls and invites them both to some industry party she has to be at that night but doesn’t want to go to alone.  Eddie chirps a cheerful agreement when Richie asks, and Richie follows from there because he is nothing if not predictable. A few hours later, Richie emerges from his bedroom in a pair of dark jeans and the most muted tee he owns, hoping to avoid calling attention to himself at all costs.  Eddie’s taking some supplements at the kitchen counter in a soft red sweater and a pair of slacks that accentuate his slim waist.

He glances at his phone.  “Our call time’s at six tomorrow morning.”

Richie pulls at his collar and makes a face.  “Better stick to the curfew, then.”

Eddie stops, looking up at him.  

“What?”

He shakes his head, just as confused as Richie.  “Nothing. Ready to go?”

As if on cue, Barb whines from her spot on the floor near the back door.  Richie gives an exaggerated pout, looking wistfully at her. “I suppose.” He sighs heavily.  “Bye, Barbarella. Try not to defecate on anything out of spite while we’re gone.”

Eddie gasps.  “My beautiful, sweet, intelligent girl would never.”  He crouches down and presses a kiss to the top of her furry head on his way to the front door.  

*

Richie’s already over the party before they’ve arrived, and five minutes into it, he’s settling himself into a booth at the lounge with every intention of staying there, drinking alone, and quietly watching Bev and Eddie make the rounds.  He’s a little uncomfortable with how possessive he feels as his eyes track Eddie’s red sweater around the room, the way a few of the men (and some of the more oblivious women) look at him. Eddie finds him with his own eyes more than a couple of times, offering a sweet, nervous smile and clearly seeking reassurance.  

It suddenly occurs to Richie that they’re actually fucking doing this; they’re diving into this project head-first tomorrow morning.  He’d been too busy riding their creative high and ignoring that fact all day, but now he’s compelled to start running his lines in his head.  

He’s stuck about halfway through one of the scenes they’re shooting tomorrow when Eddie strides over, one hand holding a club soda and the other nestled comfortably in his pocket.  He looks at him, amused. “I really didn’t expect you to hate this as much as I do.” Rather than sit across from him, he slides into the booth right beside him, close and warm.

“I don’t, just… it was nice bein’ in our little bubble for a while.”  Eddie smiles knowingly and sucks on some ice. “You seem to already be taking to The Glamorous Life like gangbusters.”

“Not by a long shot,” Eddie laughs.  “I’m just way more comfortable with you here.  And Bev.”

“Hey, if you can’t bring your emotional support animal to the clerb, we’re the next best thing.”

Eddie chuckles, and they sit in companionable silence, watching the decision makers of their industry circle around the room like vultures.  Bev plays the game well, mainly because she truly doesn’t give a shit about any of it. She loves her work, but if she got blacklisted tomorrow, she’d move into a cabin in the woods in Fucksville, Montana and sew one-of-a-kind, limited edition Beverly Marsh dresses for the rest of her life.  

Richie can instantly spot the ones who _do_ give a shit.  They’re hard to watch.  

“How much longer do you want to stay?”

He turns at Eddie’s question, getting lost in his attentive brown eyes.  Richie takes a drink. “You don’t _have_ to come home with me if you don’t want to.”

“What do you mean?”  Eddie looks a little hurt.  “It’s the night before shooting.”

Richie lays a hand on his arm, leaning in so he can hear him better.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the three gentlemen that’ve been checking you out since we got here.”  Eddie looks perplexed. He swivels around in his seat, Richie settling in behind him, mouth lowered right next to his ear and guiding his gaze with his pointer finger.  “One. Two. Three.”

“Pfft.  You’re delusional.”  Eddie turns away from the crowd, resettling with his back against the cushion.  

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“Not interested, anyway.”  Eddie yawns, snuggling up to Richie’s side in a way he fully doesn’t expect for them being in public but doesn’t mind in the least.  He pulls out his phone, swiping until he’s got the Lyft app up.

Richie covers the screen with his hand, urging it away.  “Not yet. Gimme a little dance first and then we’ll go.”

Eddie blushes.  “ _What?_ ”

“ _Come on._ ”  Richie stands and makes his way around the booth to Eddie’s side, holding a hand out to him.  “Don’t reject me; my heart won’t be able to take it. Let alone my ego.”

There’s that same hesitation in Eddie’s eyes that’s there whenever he’s chosen to sleep in the guest room instead of by Richie’s side.  It’s been a while since Richie’s seen it. Still, he slips his hand into Richie’s and follows his lead, his face serious. It’s a slow soul song that’s playing, so they fall into a swaying rhythm together, hands clasped and hovering near Eddie’s shoulder, Richie’s other hand wrapped around the back of his neck, Eddie’s curled tentatively around his waist.  

Richie forces him to meet his eyes and gives him a lopsided grin.  “See? Not too torturous, I hope.”

Eddie simply smiles softly and nuzzles his face into the crook of Richie’s neck.  Richie blows a big breath through his mouth, his eyes falling shut.

Even though he can’t remember most of their childhood together, Eddie reminds him of the wonder of being a kid, the wonder of looking up at a big movie screen, dumping a plastic pumpkin overflowing with candy out onto his living room carpet, a first kiss.  

Richie’s said _I love you_ before, but he knows he’s never meant it.  He’s never known what it meant, actually, and he’d figured at the time it was just a courtesy to the people who said they loved _him_ .  But holding Eddie unlatches something inside of him, something he forgot he ever had: the vulnerability of stakes, the impulse to protect.  He doesn’t want to say _love_ yet, but it’s something alright.  It’s _something._

He feels Eddie’s breath on the shell of his ear, the ghost of his smile.  “You remember.”

“What?”

“Junior prom.  I was too sick to go, so you skipped and we slow danced in my basement.”

Richie pulls back, looking at him.  “Wha--?”

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly.  “You were humming the song we danced to.”

“Yeah, what _is_ that?  It’s bugging the shit out of me.”

“Remember Temple of the Dog?  That supergroup with Eddie Vedder and Chris Cornell?”  Eddie leans in and rises up on the balls of his feet so he can sing quietly in Richie’s ear.  “ _She motioned to me that she wanted to leave, and go somewhere warm where we’d be alone_.”

Richie listens carefully, confusion and dread sinking into his stomach.  He remembers the song, but not the memory attached to it. God, he wants to remember.

“ _I do not know what’s going on,_ ” Eddie continues, “ _but I’m guessing it’s an all night thing._ ”  He looks at Richie’s face and smiles ruefully.  “It’s okay. Something in you remembers.”

He pulls Eddie closer and they sway a bit more, his nose buried in his sweet-smelling hair.  Suddenly, Eddie pulls away from him slightly, revealing a smiling Bev over his shoulder.

“May I cut in?”

“Sure,” Eddie chirps, vacating his spot and fading back towards their booth, throwing Richie another one of those private smiles on his way back.

Bev widens her eyes at him.  “I saw the look on your face all the way across the room.  Just figured I’d save you if you needed saving.”

Richie watches Eddie settle back into the booth and stir his soda with a tiny black straw, looking out of place.  “I am beyond saving, Marsh.”

“How dramatically on brand of you.”  Then she notices how serious he looks.  “Fuck. Really?”

“He’s…”  Richie almost says it: _I love him._ If he’d say it to anyone, it’d be Bev.  “He’s _right here_ ,” he says, pointing somewhere where his stomach and his heart meet, right at the center of him.  “Y’know? I remember other people I had crushes on growing up, stupid bullshit things, nothing like this.  Why wouldn’t I remember this? It’s like someone’s wiped my brain. It’s fucking infuriating.”

Bev offers him a sad, understanding grimace.  “That’s trauma for ya.”

“Huh?”

“Trauma,” she sighs.  “At least that’s what my therapist chalks it up to.”

“Yeah, but honey, I never had to contend with anything near what you had to.”

“Well,” Bev says, looking over at Eddie herself.  “I think Derry was trauma enough. I mean, you remember how shitty everyone in that town was, right?  Like a black hole right in the middle of Maine.”

A chill goes through Richie.  “You wanna get out of here? We were gonna go.”

Bev seems to shake off a chill of her own.  “Yeah, good idea.” Before they part, though, she rests a gentle hand on his forearm.  “Hey: we made it out of there. Wait ‘til shooting’s over and then tell him how you feel.  Maybe try for a real, grown-up relationship for a change.”

Richie curls up his mouth in mock disdain.  “Nah, that doesn’t sound like me.”

“Shithead,” she murmurs with a smile, punching his shoulder as they go to collect their friend and head out.

*

Eddie shuffles into the master bedroom in boxer briefs and a tee later that night, rubbing lotion into his forearms, Barb trotting in behind him.  She plops down by the foot of the bed with a tired huff.

“You said it, honey,” Richie says to her, then turns to Eddie.  “How you doin’? Big day tomorrow.”

“I just took a sedative,” Eddie chuckles.  “I’ve never worked with a crew this big. We have stand-ins and everything.”

Richie shifts to the left side of the bed, making room for him to snuggle in and get comfortable.  “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, Spaghetti Man. Somebody told me that the night before my first episode of TFS.  But in your case, I really believe it. Though maybe someone else should be co-starring with you in this thing.”

“Richie.”  Eddie’s voice is almost as firm as the look on his face.  “You’re gonna kick this role’s gay fucking ass.”

He bursts into surprised laughter.  “That sedative must be good shit.” Something just under the hem of Eddie’s boxer briefs catches his eye.  “Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa. _Is that a tattoo?_ ”

“Oh, you didn’t notice it before?”

Considering the amount of time Richie’s spent staring at Eddie’s legs and thighs, he’s shocked that he didn’t.  He reaches out, skating his fingers lightly over the one on Eddie’s left thigh, just a hint of a matching one peeking out from his shorts on his right.  “What is it?”

“Barbed wire.”  Eddie lifts the hem just enough so Richie can see it properly, and, sure enough, it is barbed wire.  

Richie’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.  Eddie just laughs. “Isn’t that like a prison thing?  That’s hard-fucking-core, Kaspbrak.”

“It can be.  But it means other things, too.  For me, it’s about boundaries--who I choose to let in, who I choose not to.”

Richie stares at it a bit longer, mesmerized.  “A very subtle _fuck off_.”

Eddie lifts his chin with a finger and kisses him sweetly on the mouth.  “You can keep the light on if you want,” he says, nodding to the book in Richie’s lap.  “I’m going to sleep.”

“‘Kay.”  Richie picks up his book, but as soon as Eddie’s breathing slowly and evenly next to him, he wants to meet him there in dreamland--which is exactly what ends up happening.  

Another dream.

This time, they’re actual kids, middle school age at the most.  Eddie’s standing in his underwear by the quarry edge, no thigh tattoos to speak of, and he’s crying.  “Rich, I can’t do it. I’m so scared.”

Richie peers over the edge, nudging his old, cumbersome glasses back into their rightful place on his nose.  When he looks down, he sees dark, swirling waters and treacherous waves, just like in that other dream with the couch. He takes Eddie’s hand and says confidently, “We’ll do it together, Eds.”

He wakes with a jolt, the central air kicking on just a moment after and sending a chill down the back of his damp neck.  He looks over at the body sleeping quietly beside him.

_Eds._

Richie reaches over, pushing his fingers gently through his soft hair.  Eddie turns over in his sleep and snuggles into him. Richie’s eyes sting.  “Shit,” he whispers into the dark room.

 


End file.
